“Are you all right, love?” he asked, pulling her from the crowd. “You seem upset.”
Alicia smiled, grateful to be marrying this man.
“I’m so happy,” she said. “But I’m missing the people who aren’t here.”
Edmund frowned, probably assuming that Alicia meant her mother, when actually she was thinking of Kate.
“Might I make a toast?” he asked. “I’ve been planning it for weeks.”
“We decided on this party a few days ago.”
“Exactly,” he said, that sneaky glint in his eyes.
Eddie smacked Alicia’s rear and hopped up onto the table.
“Ladies and gents!” he called out, and clanged a dessert fork against his glass. “If you’d allow me to say a few words. Don’t worry, I won’t go on too long. I would hate for some theater critic to give me yet another bad review.”
Laughter rippled across the room, everyone astounded that Edmund Purdom could joke about this already. Maybe his ego wasn’t as bloated as they all thought.
“If you know my beautiful Alicia,” he said, “my wife-to-be, then you know she came here as an immigrant, a castoff from the war. She carried nothing but a suitcase, her good looks, and her brains, the latter two of which should not be underestimated.”
Eddie winked. Alicia smiled out into crowd.
“But Alicia is an enterprising sort,” he went on. “Soon she was scoring roles, turning out canvasses, and hobnobbing with the elite. She’s consorted with princes and sheikhs and Oscar impresarios, even an up-and-coming politician or two. She’s friends with the biggest names in the business. All this to say, I don’t know how I’m the one lucky enough to get her for keeps.”
The crowd “ahhhh”ed, right on time. Alicia placed a hand over her heart to show Eddie that she was touched.
“And, so, let’s raise a glass to my stunning bride. I promise to love you, and to serve you, from tomorrow at…” He checked his watch. “Three o’clock, until the end of time.”
Three o’clock? Alicia’s neck felt squeezed, as if in a vise. Dear God, she was to be married tomorrow, from sixteen hours hence “until the end of time.” She swallowed several times, but the saliva would not go down.
“Cheers!” Eddie trilled.
“Cheers!” everyone returned.
All eyes shifted Alicia’s way. She held up a glass but said nothing, her throat still clenched by some invisible force. Meanwhile, Eddie beamed, reveling in the admiration of the crowd.
“Cheers!” he said one more time.
Eddie gulped his champagne, cocked his arm, and hurled his glass against the wall. For a second, the room held its breath, and then all manner of glassware began whizzing past as people whooped and hollered. When Alicia realized she was the only one still holding a glass, she threw hers, too, with as much force as she could find.
“Na zdrowie!” she shouted, the first words that came out.
Eddie jumped down.
“That went well,” he said, a pat on his own back.
“You’re the star of the show,” Alicia agreed.
They were getting married. Tomorrow. And then it was London after that.
What would she do while Eddie was filming? Play housewife? Cater to his whims? Would he expect Alicia to get pregnant? With Tita, he’d had two kids in three years, so Eddie was a proven quick shot. She’d never told him that pregnancy, for her, was not to be.
“Alicia, are you listening?” Eddie shouted directly into her ear.
“We can’t get married tomorrow,” she blurted.
Eddie’s eyes bugged, and Alicia nodded, for she was equally surprised by the words she’d said.
“Have you lost the plot? Everything’s arranged.”
“Not everything,” Alicia said. “We haven’t found a judge to perform the rites. Also, I’m still trying to convince Kate and Spence to come.”
“Kate Hepburn?” Edmund said, and snorted. “For fuck’s sake. The clackety old dame strikes again.”
“And the dress.” Alicia scooted closer, and pressed her body to his. “The seamstress says it’ll be done by tomorrow, but it fit like a paper bag six hours ago!”
“A dress?” Edmund scoffed. “You want to postpone our marriage because of a frock?”
“I’ve been dreaming of it my whole life!”
Her “whole life” was a bit of a stretch. Alicia hadn’t been the sort of child who fantasized about weddings. As a teen, she couldn’t afford to ruminate on the future at all. Alicia had only been dreaming of it since last month, when she saw Funny Face and determined Audrey Hepburn’s wedding dress would be even better on her. Alicia located the best seamstress in New York, and had it copied, to the last seam.
“Please, darling?” Alicia said, and batted her eyes. “We have time. You’re not expected in London until the end of April.”
“Fine,” he said. “But the license is good for another two weeks, and I’m not standing in that bloody line again to get it renewed.”
“Very well.” She shuddered in relief. “I promise. I won’t make you suffer the bureaucrats a second time.”
She popped up onto her toes to give him a kiss.
“I love you, Edmund Purdom,” she said. “Thank you for making my dreams come true.”
* * *
A week later, Alicia and Edmund were still unmarried.
Their license remained valid, and Alicia’s dress hung in the closet. Alas, there was no wedding date and the two barely broached the topic. Edmund brooded silently while Alicia carried on, blithe to promises and expiration dates. Maybe if she did this for long enough, everything would turn out okay, whatever “okay” meant.
Working hard at her good cheer, Alicia pranced into El Morocco, Eddie straggling morosely behind. The second they were through the doors, friends waved them over, and thank God for that. Alicia took Eddie’s hand and they went to join the couple, who were themselves recently hitched. Liz and Mike wed on the beach in Acapulco two months ago, and in one move, Elizabeth Taylor became both a wife and a grandmother at the age of twenty-four.
“It’s the merry lovebirds,” Alicia said as they sauntered up.
Liz smiled, gorgeous as forever, the lone person who could make Alicia ponder life as a brunette.
“Merry indeed,” Liz said, and patted the seat beside her. “Come sit next to me, Eddie. Oh, Alicia, how do you get more beautiful by the day?”
“High praise, coming from La Liz.”
“Speaking of merry lovebirds,” said the handsome and tanned Mike Todd.
It was hard to accept that he and Spence were nearly the same age. They seemed like two entirely different cuts of meat. Mike was a fine steak as opposed to Spencer’s chewy, aged gristle.
“I’ve heard that you two are following us down the aisle,” Mike said. “Are the rumors true?”
“Indeed, we’ll be married any day,” Alicia said quickly. “We’re quite excited!”
She whipped her head toward Liz.
“Please explain why you aren’t on the dance floor?” she asked. “You’re not one to shirk in the corners.”
“My dear Liz is feeling poorly,” Mike Todd said, and kissed his wife. “We expect this to continue for some time. Nine months, perhaps?”
He smirked, giving them all a clue.
“Liz!” Alicia clapped. “You’re pregnant?”
Liz lit up, her answer clear as day.
“What wonderful news!” Alicia sang. “When are you due? I thought you looked especially lovely tonight. I was seconds from grilling you about your skin-care regime!”
“The baby is expected in late summer,” she said with a dewy blush. “Which seems like ages from now.”
“Fabulous news,” Eddie said.
He lifted his glass.
“A toast,” he said. “May the baby have all of your talent, Liz, and none of Mike’s looks.”
“Hear, hear,” Mike said with a laugh.
“Is it really that awful?” Alicia asked. “Bei
ng pregnant?”
“Jesus, Alicia, what a question,” Edmund said.
“It’s fine, Eddie,” Liz said. “And yes! I’m exhausted! And nauseated all of the time. I’m not sure why we’re here tonight, other than my husband wanted to see some friends. And they had the nerve not to show!”
“Sorry, babe,” Mike said, and kissed her again, this time on the head. “I’m a shit husband. We’ll stay in, the next three nights, and I’ll spend it all rubbing your feet.”
“If only.” Liz sighed. “Don’t forget, dear, we have the ball on Thursday.”
She bent toward Alicia.
“The April in Paris gala,” she said. “Are you going?”
Alicia shook her head. April in Paris was New York’s biggest social event of the season. This year’s party commemorated the two hundredth birthday of the Marquis de Lafayette, and its purpose was to raise money for various Franco-American charities, such as the French Students Fund and an organization that aided refugees from the First World War. Why not the second, Alicia wanted to know.
“It’s the day after tomorrow,” Liz said. “I’m sure it will be spectacular but it sounds like agony to me.”
“Fuck the ball,” Mike said. “We’re not going.”
“Now it makes sense,” Alicia said. “This morning a mysterious woman rang my room. She offered to pay a hundred dollars for the hair appointment I have at Bergdorf’s tomorrow. I declined, but maybe I should put it on the auction block.”
“Keep the appointment!” Liz said, violet eyes wide. “Keep the appointment and take our place at the gala!”
“A fabulous idea,” Mike agreed.
“Please say yes!” Liz begged. “You’d solve all my problems. The tickets were quite dear, one twenty-five each, and I’d have awful guilt about throwing them out. You’ll love it. French clothes and French people. The Paris Opera will be performing!”
“The Paris Opera?” Alicia said, her interest now piqued.
She wasn’t sure about stuffy, prim-nosed affairs with New York’s best and brightest, but French clothes and opera were two things Alicia could get behind.
“The lists are closed, so you couldn’t get in if you wanted to,” Liz said. “All the biggest names will be there, a once-in-a-lifetime event. It was so clever, they sent the invitations in red-and-white-striped hat boxes.”
“It does sound fun,” Alicia said, and looked at Ed. “What do you think?”
“Mike will call it in tomorrow!” Liz said. “Have them replace the Mike Todds with the Edmund Purdoms.”
“They’re not married yet, dear.”
“Hold up,” Edmund said. “Perhaps we can fix that.”
He swung his gaze toward Alicia.
“Let’s get married tomorrow night,” he said.
“Tomorrow? But we can’t,” Alicia said.
“We can. We have the license, and the dress, and the requisite hair appointment, too. Now or never, babe.”
“So, that’s it?” Liz said. “You’ll get hitched tomorrow?”
“I won’t wait another day,” Edmund said, then gave Alicia a triumphant smile while she sat slack-jawed and clammy.
“You romantic son of a gun.”
Mike Todd reached around to ruffle Eddie’s hair.
“What do you say, Alicia?” he asked. “Are you ready to be married? Is tomorrow finally the day?”
Alicia nodded, because what else could she say? Her dress was ready. Kate wasn’t coming to New York “any time this year.” And, there was the hair appointment, too. Really, she had no reason to wait.
“We’ll take your tickets,” Alicia said with an exhale. “Please tell the organizers to expect the Edmund Purdoms.”
PURDOM WEDS POLISH ART STUDENT IN N.Y.
Los Angeles Times, April 10, 1957
NEW YORK
Alicia Darr, or Barbara Kopczynska if you’d rather, and Edmund Purdom married on Wednesday, the tenth of April, at the Hampshire House, in a rose-embossed wallpapered room overlooking Central Park.
A city court judge presided over the vows, which were witnessed by twenty-five of their closest and most readily available friends. Liz and Mike attended. Likewise, Dean Martin, Esther Williams, and the Milton Berles. Lucy and Desi stopped in for a post-ceremony toast.
Alicia wore a white satin dress that, like Audrey’s in Funny Face, had a boatneck and a flared, tea-length ballerina-style skirt. On her head was a delicate tiara made of platinum, diamonds, and pearls. The night floated past as a dream, or a trance, somehow like a picture Alicia might paint, yet not what she expected at all.
The next morning, Alicia woke with the sun. She threw a fur coat over her nightclothes and rushed to the newsstand, to see if she and Eddie had made the cut.
When she saw that they did, Alicia was at first thrilled, and then her stomach turned to stone. The photograph. Dear God. In it, Alicia’s chin was tilted upward, away from her new husband, an arm held against her stomach, as if she might be sick. Eddie stood awkwardly behind her, and appeared to be suckling her right eyelid.
Alicia whimpered, then sprinted upstairs to wake Eddie, who was sipping tea and smoking languidly.
“You won’t believe what they printed!” she cried. “It’s a disaster!”
Eddie gave the photo a scan, then returned to his teacup, unmoved.
“It’s fine,” he said, a bizarrely indifferent response given his phenomenal vanity. “You’re always far too worried about your image.”
Kate had a similar reaction when called. As did Fred, in L.A.
“I don’t care about the damned picture,” he said. “Why’d you marry the bastard in the first place?”
Alicia would have to double down at the April in Paris ball, work to get in the papers for that. She’d chosen a red strapless sheath taken straight from Funny Face, like her wedding gown. When she’d spotted it at Bergdorf’s, she remembered Audrey dancing on the steps of the Louvre, arms outstretched, a red chiffon scarf fluttering in her wake.
As they rode to the Waldorf, Alicia worried that her getup was overdone. The dress code called for red, white, or blue, to match the French flag, but Alicia’s red was so bright, it seemed like another color altogether. But, when they stepped into the Grand Ballroom, Alicia’s concerns evaporated.
“Wow,” she said, gaping at the elaborate bunting, dramatic ostrich plumes, and tricolored drapes. “I hadn’t expected this.”
“Remarkable,” Edmund agreed, and took his new wife’s hand.
The tables were set in rows and adorned with blue tablecloths, silver candelabras, and flowers shipped from France. Gilt armor was stationed throughout the room. On the stage, a statue of the Marquis de Lafayette was flanked by fountains lit in red, white, and blue. Alicia would be lucky to be noticed at all, in a room like this.
The program listed performances by the Rockettes and Paris Opera, followed by a reenactment of Lafayette’s wedding to his fourteen-year-old bride. Later in the evening, guests would be treated to a demonstration of Parisian fashion (Dior, Balmain, Dessès) and French jewels (one million dollars’ worth, provided by Cartier).
A waiter handed Alicia a glass of French champagne, and the Purdoms sat for a seven-course meal modeled after Lafayette’s wedding feast, beginning with la procession royale des brioches au fromage, the royal procession of cheese and buns.
They were midway through the fourth course when an unexpected performance sprang up on the far side of the room. It was Marilyn Monroe, making a late entrance in a dramatic sequined gown.
“Jesus,” Eddie muttered.
Alicia gawked. She’d never seen a dress that skintight, or low-cut. Papers would later describe it as “mostly skirt held up by a couple of rather wide shoulder straps.” Marilyn wore no jewelry and her hair was twisted into a sloppy chignon. Her latest husband, the bespectacled playwright Arthur Miller, walked several paces behind.
“Great timing,” Eddie griped. “Who arrives when dinner is halfway through?”
“You can’t
expect La Marilyn to wear a wristwatch,” Alicia said. “Or the requested colors, apparently.”
Marilyn was in black.
As the Arthur Millers took their seats, no less than thirty people decamped from the Duchess of Windsor’s table and rushed toward them, programs in hand, hoping for an autograph. The photographers likewise flew to her side, followed by several dozen self-proclaimed “old friends.” If this party were on a ship, they’d capsize.
Thirty minutes passed. The waiters couldn’t get in to serve the next course, so they hung back, waiting, as the food cooled. Nearby, the Duchess of Windsor clucked and clacked, furious that she’d been upstaged in this way. She was supposed to be the guest of honor, and therefore the center of attention, not Marilyn Monroe.
“If you ever throw a party for me,” Alicia said, one eye still on the duchess, “make sure that Marilyn Monroe is not on the guest list.”
She looked at her husband.
“Unless I’m trying to lose weight,” she said.
Alicia’s eyes darted back to the duchess’s table. That was when she noticed the duke, who was speaking to a man in a tuxedo. His companion was tall and gangly. He was slightly hunched over, using a chair for support.
Alicia’s heart stopped.
“You okay, love?” Edmund asked.
“Yes, yes, fine.” She sprang to her feet. “But my throat is very dry all of a sudden. Please excuse me while I step out for a sip of water.”
Alicia’s throat was dry, and she was light-headed, too. From the champagne, and the night, and the prickling realization that I am married. The prickling realization that Jack is still around.
As his telltale laugh rippled across the room, Alicia took off, and sprinted through the double doors. She paused outside the ladies’ room, gripping a marble table as she sputtered and gasped. A thousand people in one room—it was too many. Especially where Jack or Marilyn was involved.
Soon, Alicia heard footsteps. She glanced up, a joke on her tongue. Something about how they didn’t need Broadway, when Marilyn made for such great theater.
“Oh!” she yelped, then jumped.
Jacqueline Kennedy. The last person she expected or wanted to see.
The Summer I Met Jack Page 36